Recoil
by RogueJacksonators
Summary: Stiles feels when Theo invades Lydia's memories and makes her catatonic. He finds her in the woods and brings her back before she has to be admitted to Eichen. Post 5x10. Some spoilers. Stiles-centric. One-shot.


The bright whites of the hospital hit him like a storm as they burst through the hospital doors, the sheriff on the bloodied gurney, flanked by two officers and his son, the entourage headed by frantic ambulance staff.

He wasn't thinking straight, hadn't been since he ran into the wrecked house and saw his father, beaten and bruised. In fact, the last thing he registered was his heart pounding and the blinding rage pummelling from his gut up his throat and flashing behind his eyes as his fist connected with the jaw of Theo Raeken.

Everything after was a blur. Hotwiring some old truck, speeding down the road, fumbling for his phone, trying to form the words, the hospital. Lips moved around him but everything just blended into white noise. He couldn't feel. Couldn't take in anything around him. His legs were numb and his head was unfocused, his body blindly following the gurney, guided by the tight grip of his hand on the edge.

His dad was in gravely injured. Scott was in danger. No, no, _not dad. Not Scott_. Then he was hit by a wave of senses.

Voices at first - yelling, of the staff and officers next to him, then a low, grinding sound and a jarring vibration running from the floor through his chest. The white hospital walls flashed, then vanished, replaced by dark, grimy ones with eerie shadows stained, peeling wallpaper. The rancid smell of chemicals and decompose invaded his nose. A sharp pain pierced the back of his neck and he stumbled round the corner, losing his grip on the gurney. He was blinded by both the pain and the sterile marble floor he was going to face-plant. Someone grabbed the back of his hoodie and pulled him upright. He flailed and looked up, an absent-minded 'thanks' forming on his throat, only to be greeted by the trees of the Beacon Hills preserve. He looked around wildly, images flashing everywhere he turned. Blood. White. Yellow eyes. White. The woods. Blood. The entourage rounded a final corner and crashed into the emergency room. He grabbed the doorframe for support, reeling from the visions. He pushed himself after his dad and stumbled into a grove of trees. The pain in his neck seared. And he saw it, the large, gnarly stump. Littered with bodies. He somehow staggered back into the dark room and that was where he felt the pull. The icy cold feeling that shot up his spine and painfully numbed his skull. Like a million icy needles forcing their way through his head. He collapsed onto dead leaves and forest litter, breathing raggedly. And somehow, he just _knew_.

 _the tether._

 _Lydia._

 _Oh my god what happened to Lydia._

The world spun around him and his senses were drowned out again. His ears were ringing and his head was spinning.

 _Dad Scott Lydia Dad Scott Lydia_

Nurses and officers crashed into him but he didn't feel the impact.

 _So many people so much blood_

 _Ohgodohgodohgod_

He didn't remember how he got out of the hospital, where he got the keys and the car. He only knew one moment he was on the verge of having another panic attack and and the next he was running through the preserve. His legs burned and he was gasping for breath. He dashed past the nemeton and the pile of dead chimeras around it, skidding towards the limp body behind it.

 _LydiaohgodLydia_

His hands were shaking as he sat her up. She stared up him, eyes wide, mouth hung open, unmoving. He shook her, held her face, called her name. Nothing.

"Lydia?" he choked. It was the first thing he heard someone say that stuck in his brain, and the only thing he could hear, himself mumbling her name over and over and over. He pulled her to him and buried her face in his neck, trembling hands on her back on behind her neck, as if he could protect her from the world, this world, of nightmares and supernatural creatures and darkness. _But he's too late_. The back of her neck felt damp with blood and her could trace the four scars for four claw marks and _he's going to fucking murder Theo Raeken._

He let out a strangled yell, throwing his head back, and the world went silent. His head stopped spinning. He's just sitting in the middle of the woods, crying beneath the moon, ironically like the wolves he runs with, catatonic Lydia Martin in his arms.

He was still shaking when he carried her back to the car. He had to make a real effort not to look towards the tree, and the dead bodies, but he did anyway. They are charred and covered in soot but still recognisable. He squeezed his eyes shut when he realised that because it was only a matter of time before his inner sleuth started identifying them and he wouldn't be able to stand seeing Donovan's face again. In fact, he's not sure how he even found the tree. Perhaps the tether just _pulled_ him here, to Lydia. Somewhere at the back of his head the dully noted some footprints trailing from the stump but the only thing he could really think about right now is Lydia Martin _._

He drove to the clinic. He realised when he stepped out of the car that Deaton wasn't back yet and he knew that, but he wasn't thinking. Maybe he came because that was what they had always done. And it was just his instinct now. Maybe he was drawn there because it was where they first found out about, and utilised, their tether.

He laid her onto the metal table. He's seen so many people unconscious, dead, even, on this table, but seeing Lydia Martin unconscious on the table hurt. He gently closed her eyes and mouth. At least this way she looked like she was sleeping, or he could lie to himself that she was sleeping, instead of being in some paralysed state because of _that fucking asshole_. The icy feeling was starting to prickle again. The tether. He had to do something. Fast.

 _But what?_

He paced up around the room, rummaging through random drawers and cabinets, digging his fingers through his hair, clenching his fists. _Think, Stiles, think._

 _You're the one that always figures it out._

His heart was palpitating again and he was breathing heavily from the panic, anxiety and frustration. Observant, brown eyes scanned the room, swallowing his surroundings, his brain functioning again and taking inventory of everything in sight. His gaze fell on the pots of herbs growing under the windowsill.

 _"It needs to be someone who can pull you back, someone that has a strong connection to you,"_ Deaton had said.

Then he was being sinking beneath the ice-cold waters again.

 _Oh hell_ , he thought.

He's no Deaton, that was certain, and there was no doubt he was concocting a quick recipe for disaster. But he'd done his research. He'd read about the rituals of celtic druids as well as their herbology practices. And, as a last ditch attempt at self-conviction, he knew his science. He just needed to find where one would hide a bath tub in a veterinary clinic.

The far back of a hidden, musty and probably unused storeroom, apparently. He also found large packs of ice in the freezer amongst unassuming medicinal drugs (was this guy paranoid, prepared, or creepy?). He quite literally threw to set-up together, spraying water and ice everywhere. Jars and vials were knocked over before he frantically grabbed the bottle of bilberries, shakily sprinkling some into the tub. Then, for extra measure, raided a cabinet for some rowan leaves, tossing tools and containers across the room.

He contrasted his own spastic, cataclysmic movements when he slowly lifted Lydia's lifeless form off the table, arms hooked under her neck and knees, and carefully lowered her into the tub. Ice and water sloshed onto his shoes, displaced as they parted around the girl's body, before rushing in above her.

Now all he had to do was wait.

He clasped her hands together underwater and held onto them, curled his knees into his chest and tucked his head between his arms, squeezing his eyes shut to hold back the tears. He had to focus on their connection, the tether. Deep breaths. He couldn't afford to break down. For Lydia.

 _In. Out. In. Out._

 _I always thought we had this kind of connection. Unspoken, of course._

 _And if you die, I will literally go out of my freaking mind._

Stiles didn't know when he had fallen asleep. He hadn't been aware of the time since the old house. But he was jerked awake by a small splash of cold water.

His head snapped up and he scrambled to his feet, grabbing for something to arm himself with. He immediately toppled over, flailing arms sending water splashing as he got half-dunked in the tub.

He straightened up, coughing and choking loudly. So loudly he did not hear the softer coughs echoing his at first.

"Lydia," he breathed.

He froze for a moment, before making to carry her out of the tub. Gravity pulled at her dripping dress, so he collapsed on the floor instead of putting her back on the table, holding the petite redhead in his arms. Cold soaked into his clothes and skin, but he didn't care. Lydia Martin was okay.

Lydia's eyes were still closed, but her lips were barely moving. Stiles ducked his head to listen to her.

"I saw you…they were taking me…and you…came…"

Her voice was no more than a hoarse whisper.

"You came for me…"


End file.
